


Son

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 12:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17223995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: "You’re not my son Jack, but—”Before Medda could finish her sentence, Jack had erupted in laughter.





	Son

“You’re not my son Jack, but—”

Before Medda could finish her sentence, Jack had erupted in laughter. She didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved that he had broken the moment, but she put her hands on her hips, doing her best to stare Jack Kelly down the way she’d been able to when he was just little boy rummaging uninvited through the boxes she kept backstage.

“I’ll say you ain’t.” Jack managed to stifle one last laugh, even as his eyes still shone with merriment.

“And what,” Medda punctuated her words by smacking Jack across the shoulder with her fan, “is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, for one thing, you never told me not to do nothin’. And for another… Hey, you remember that time when I was a kid, and I fell asleep hiding out backstage and you gave me a bag of gumdrops for breakfast in the morning?”

“You gave me the fright of my life,” Medda admitted. “Not only did you spring up out of nowhere, but there you were, all of eight years old and hungry. What else was I supposed to do?”

“You used to talk to me like I was a puppy. ’Well look at you there, aren’t you the cutest little thing that ever was? Yes you are’.” Jack finished off his words in a high pitched impression of Medda’s own voice.

“I most certainly did not.”

“Did too. Don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but that’s the way you talk to all the really little kids, up till we reaches a certain height and then suddenly it’s all advice on how to save up cash and stir up drama with the headlines, or how to treat the fellas who works for you, or how to talk to girls like they’re people.”

Medda decided against telling Jack that none of the other boys who came to visit her had received quite as much advice as he had. Plenty had been through her doors over the years, but very few of them had found so many of them open. That’s what had come of knowing Jack’s father, and seeing how much better and more sincere than him Jack was, even as he grew to look more like the man with each passing year.

“Will you really leave this time?” Medda asked. “You have your tickets, and you’ve said your goodbyes?”

Jack nodded. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked almost sheepish. He was wearing his old cowboy hat, and he had the length of rope that he’d fashioned into a lasso so many years ago. Once upon a time these things had been his costume and props. Now, as Medda gazed steadily at him, she did not see a child pretending to be something he wasn’t, but a man who had tested out living the way that others wanted him to, and come to the conclusion that he needed to follow his own dreams.

But now wasn’t the time to stand around taking Jack in and thinking about the past, even if there might never be another chance. Medda stopped and smiled. Jack didn’t want a sentimental goodbye, and she wouldn’t force one on him.

“If you run into any outlaws or tornadoes out there, you better write to me first if all, got it? We’re always in need of dramatic inspiration around these parts,” Medda said.

Jack grinned, “Would you be playing the outlaw or the tornado?”

“That demands entirely on the mood of my costumers, and what kind of fabric I can get on sale,” she gave Jack a light shove towards the door. “But if you don’t hurry, you’ll miss your train, and all my plans will be dashed.”

Jack took a deep breath, and for a moment the air was heavy with unspoken words. Then he smacked Medda on the back, the same way he might one of the boys who had just told a good joke. “It’s been fun,” he said. “Good luck with the theatre, yeah?”

“Jack…” Medda spat in her hand, and stuck it out for Jack to shake. Apparently that was just the thing to do, because Jack relaxed at once, and after mirroring the gesture, leaned in for a quick hug.

And that was it. Jack pulled away. With one last wave he was off, boyish and bounding.

Once he was gone, Medda looked around the little backstage area, with a sigh, a smile, and a shake of the head. There were dusty boxes of discarded props, and half a dozen costumes hanging up in slight disarray. This was Medda’s life, and these were the things she cared about. Jack wouldn’t be a part of that anymore, because she wasn’t his mother, and she’d never wanted to be his mother. She’d just been a friend, who’d known deep down that if his mother had been alive to see him, just how worried and exasperated and proud she’d be.


End file.
